


Away

by TeaHouseMoon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Confused Sherlock, Jealous John, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mary is dead, Meddling Mycroft, Parentlock, VERY mildly dubious but just to be safe, Viclock, john does his own investigating!, very mildly dubious consent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-24 19:28:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4932418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaHouseMoon/pseuds/TeaHouseMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Mary's death, John decides to leave everything behind and stay away for a while. Much like Sherlock did, he returns two years later - his world seems unchanged, but he soon finds out this is not true, and has to learn how to deal with everything all over again - and be the one, this time, to rebuild what's broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

As John walked slowly down Baker Street, the dulled light of an overcast morning was beginning to brighten, silvery clouds slowly making space for a few rays of sun to sift through. It was the start of a warm October; one of those that suddenly, and bitterly, morphed into a freezing winter seemingly right in front of your eyes.  
As he thought about it, John realised he was rather looking forward to the cold; to the need for jackets, scarves; the desire to stay indoors, and hide from the outside world for a while.  
Not that he would be able to do that, really. He’d recently resumed his work at the GP practice – not the one he was working at with Mary, no, of course not – and the long hours kept him out of the house most of the day. But, if he could, he would have – hidden himself for a while, that is.  
Blinking himself out of his reverie and into the present, John realised he’d reached the black door of 221b, as if on autopilot. He stared at it for a few moments: the ebony paint that seemingly never eroded; the brass doorknob, abraded and worn by contrast; the little, cheap white buzzer buttons at arm level on the right.  
John lifted his hand, but hesitated. Should he ring the doorbell? Or just use his keys? He'd never returned them, after all, and they were currently clacking merrily in his left trouser pocket, his hand wrapped around the keyring, grasping it nervously. He'd stopped carrying them around during his time away – had to make himself put them away, because they would have had no use, of course. But now, since he'd taken the time to fish them out of the scruffy shoebox full of old assorted trinkets where he kept them – together with a lighter with faded out sides that once had probably been colourful; a set of batteries that had once been used to power a toy (John's heart had clenched at the sight); a passport holder, the plastic ruined at the edges and its insides empty – he thought he should probably use them.  
He squeezed his fingers around the cold metal, cleared his throat, his go-to way to steel himself - and looked up.  
This was going to be the first time he'd gone back to Baker Street; the first time after all that had happened.

The first time as a widower.

 

****

 

“John.”

Sherlock had seemed somewhat startled at seeing John there, on the landing of the flat they used to share, standing awkwardly with a hand on the handle of the door they never used to close but which he'd now found shut.  
John looked up at him, cleared his throat again, smiled, tentatively.

“Hey, Sherlock. Is this a bad moment – we said nine thirty but I can…”

“No, no”, Sherlock interrupted. Against the white-grey light of the morning coming through the window of the sitting room he stood out, dark, almost like a cardboard figure, all angles but no actual weight to him. John glanced up, searched for his eyes; they lost their surprise and softened, and Sherlock smiled.

“No, it's fine. I just need – could we go downstairs? Mrs Hudson’s out – the flat is…”

John offered a chuckle. “Oh, God Sherlock”, he said, affection in his voice. “Another experiment? I'm afraid to ask.”

“Yes, well – you know”, Sherlock offered back, with a small chuckle of his own. His eyes trained to the floor, he stepped onto the landing as well, his own hand on the doorknob this time as he closed the door behind them. John looked up, trying to find his eyes once again, but Sherlock was still looking down at the stairs; so he left it, and started climbing down back to 221a.

“Mrs Hudson’s out at the shops”, Sherlock completed his previous sentence once they were both in her kitchenette.  
There were two chairs by the small wooden table, but neither of them sat down. Sherlock went to stand at the far end of the small room from the entrance, his back to the patio door; John stood facing him, by the kitchen counter. He thought about leaning against it slightly, but somehow, in his mind that felt like a disadvantage, and he decided against it. He didn't need to try and act relaxed - he was relaxed. It was all fine.

“How – how are you?”, he finally asked, looking up and meeting Sherlock's eyes.  
Sherlock hadn't changed much, his whole lanky figure tall and slim just as last time John had seen him, two years prior. His eyes returned John's gaze, blue and focused just as John remembered them.

“I should be the one to ask you that”, came the reply. His voice was low and controlled, and John could tell he was doing his best to put him at ease. But there was no need; John was fine.  
He smiled lightly by way of reassurance.

“Yeah. I’m – I’ve been alright. Much better now. Much easier.”  
Sherlock's eyes were observing him, and John knew he was examining him for clues on his wellbeing that his words had left out; but he didn't mind. He had nothing to hide.

“Good. I'm glad”, Sherlock murmured back.

John cleared his throat again, and let his eyes scan Sherlock’s features too; he wasn't as good with deductions as Sherlock was, of course – but he hadn't seen his ex flatmate, his best friend, for so long, that everything about him seemed almost new, and unknown, and everything told a story. His raven hair, curled around his face and in stark contrast to the paleness of his skin, was still amazingly devoid of grey strands. His eyes, the blue-turquoise darker in the yellowish light of Mrs Hudson’s kitchen, small fine lines at the outer corners as he smiled for John; his body, wrapped in the expensive black cotton of his suit ensemble - John wondered if Sherlock felt he had to dress up for their meeting, but dismissed the idea. Sherlock was always well dressed.  
Everything about him seemed new, but also old, and familiar. Suddenly John was aware of how much he’d craved the old and the familiar; and to think that he'd left because he didn't think he could stand another second of it.  
His heart accelerated a bit in his chest then, and he glanced down, and up again. He took a step forward; and then, without giving him a chance to be surprised, he threw his arm around Sherlock’s left shoulder, behind his neck, and pulled him into a hug. He held on while Sherlock caught his breath; then he felt him relax, and Sherlock’s arms came up to wrap around John..

“I'm glad you're back”, Sherlock murmured, his words muffled by the wool of John's jumper against which he was speaking. John closed his eyes for a brief moment, then let his arm release Sherlock’s body, and they both let go.  
He didn't really know what else to say. There wasn't much to say, really; or rather, there was, but it wasn't what John had come back for. All those things were in the past; John intended to leave them there. Sherlock hadn't even asked about – about her; John knew it was intentional, and he was grateful for it.

“Do you think Mrs Hudson would get very cross if I stole a slice of that crumble before I head off to work?”, he said instead, pointing with his chin at a beautiful looking pie that sat on a flowery plate on the counter, and smiling gamely at Sherlock. Sherlock smiled back, this time with his whole mouth – John remembered those smiles.

“No, no. I think she would be very pleased if you had some, actually”.

John chuckled.

 

 

****

 

 

Sherlock stood by the window. Still dressed in his suit – the black two-piece he liked to wear with dark satin shirts, blue or black, as it allowed him to look his usual smart self but without the affectation, more casual, more apt for when he wanted to make a subtle impression.  
Was that was he was trying to do, with John? Make an impression? John, who’d once been his flatmate, shared that very flat. His best friend. Was John still his best friend? Could he say that, after not seeing, nor hearing from him, for nearly two years?  
Sherlock reached out with a long-fingered, manicured hand, and nudged the curtains aside to look at the street John had just disappeared along on his way to work.  
He swayed almost imperceptibly, lost in thought, his hips skimming the table that was scattered to insanity with papers, stationary and books; his eyes still stayed on the portion of empty street he could see through the dusty window pane, observing - until a noise from within the flat made his ears perk up. He did not turn; he waited, and a few seconds later, he felt a pair of strong arms encircle him from behind, going to wrap around his waist, and a wide, cotton-clad chest push up against his back.

"You've been up long", a deep voice, warm from sleep, murmured in his ear. The man's nose nuzzled into the curls just above Sherlock's nape.

"And you've slept in", Sherlock said. The corners of his mouth pulled up slightly, and he nudged the other gently in order to have space to turn around within the circle of his arms. The man smiled at him once they were face to face; he was a good three inches taller, and Sherlock had to look up to meet his eyes.

"Oh, don't be like that. You know I was at the office until very late last night", the man murmured again, and this time it was evident he was lowering his voice on purpose. He dipped his head a little and his mouth found Sherlock's. The kiss was slow, yet light; a good-morning kiss.  
When it ended, the man's left hand travelled up to Sherlock's face, and grasped at his chin, gently.

"Will you ever introduce me to your friends?" he said, his voice perking up a notch, more awake now. "I've been here for two weeks and I've only met your landlady - once".

Sherlock looked away, pretended to huff. "You know I don't have friends, Victor", he protested, waving the thought away with a hand as if absurd.  
Victor just smiled, and his dark eyes narrowed playfully.

"Oh, really? Then what about the gentleman you met with this morning, hmm? Do you always have nice chats like that with the plumber in Mrs Hudson's kitchen?"

There was an obvious teasing tone in Victor's voice, and his smile had remained intact - but Sherlock's eyes widened nonetheless, suspicious, and he held Victor's gaze, challenging, even though Victor's arms still hadn't let him go and he hadn't tried to set himself free.

"Were you spying?"

"Just lovingly curious".

Sherlock's eyes were still suspicious, and he pursed his lips together. Victor's smile widened.

"I'm only teasing, Sherlock".

Sherlock relented. "You were asleep. Then you were in the shower. No point". He dismissed the thought once again with a wave of his hand.

"Alright", Victor nodded. "You know I'll be out of your hair soon. Five more days, and my apartment will be ready".

Sherlock sighed. "And you know I don't mind you being here".

Victor held his gaze. Then his liquid eyes, brown, one colour throughout, solid and not at all like Sherlock's changeable ones, looked down to Sherlock's mouth, and he pulled him to his chest and captured his lips once again. The kiss was deeper this time, slower even - Victor wanted to take his time. After a sigh, Sherlock opened his mouth and kissed back; let Victor exhale into his mouth, tilt his head to the side gently - run his hand from where it was placed lightly on Sherlock's spine, near his waist, up over his back and into his curls, grasping at them and holding tightly. Victor's other hand slid down slowly, following the line of Sherlock's spine over his shirt and jacket, then over his belt at the back of his trousers until it skimmed his backside, descended to his thigh, then up again to grip at the buttock he'd just stroked. Victor kept kissing him, almost stealing his breath, and Sherlock sighed into his mouth, a near sob.  
When Victor's hand squeezed again, harder, Sherlock broke the kiss and tilted his head to the side.

"Victor".

Victor did not chase his mouth, but went to kiss the side of his throat, slow and languid. His hand pushed up further in between Sherlock's legs from behind; Sherlock closed his eyes, pulled himself away a bit. His legs tensed.

"Victor, _no_ ".

Victor stopped his ministrations at once. His hands fell from Sherlock's body, and he closed his eyes, and nodded, briefly. When he looked back up at Sherlock again, his expression was bashful, like a kid caught doing something wrong and who should know better. Sherlock smiled very briefly back at him in reassurance.

"I want to take you out to dinner tonight", Victor said, warm voice now devoid of all the seductive undertones, obviously trying for safe rather than sexy to ensure Sherlock would accept his invite. "Nobu. I'll call now, they'll give me a table. What do you say?"

Sherlock sighed, and the corner of his mouth went up once again - Victor knew Sherlock had a soft spot for nice restaurants. "All right".

"Great", Victor smiled, his expression suddenly jubilant. "I'll get a car - will pick you up at seven.” He squeezed Sherlock’s right hand briefly, and then Sherlock watched him as he walked away, back to the bedroom to get changed for work.

 

 

****

 

 

“Harry?”

The line fizzled a bit on the other side.

“John? That you? Sorry, this silly thing – I never know how to fix the volume!”

John smiled a little, imagining the frown lines on his sister’s face at the phone’s impudence. Her aversion to technology had not improved over the years – she still sent hand-written letters more often than she sent emails.

“Yeah, yeah it's me. Everything ok?”

Another fizzle, then the line finally settled.

“Yes, all good! But how are you? When did you get back? You said last Thursday but then I didn't hear anything and I thought, maybe you were delayed or something…”

“No, no, I – I did get back on Thursday. But I had some things to take care of. Sort a place, check with work, that type of stuff”.

“Oh. So…you're back at work already?”

John sighed, then smiled a little. If anything, his job was possibly the one thing that provided some kind of normality to his days.

“Yeah. Contacted an ex-colleague, luckily they were looking for a new person”. He chuckled without mirth. “Somehow, they still seem to think that I'm a good doctor.”

“You are a good doctor!”, Harry interrupted, voice fretting with an urgency their conversation didn't need. John smiled sideways and said nothing; he knew she was really trying to be supportive. He and Harry had never had the easiest of relationships – but it was pretty standard as sibling behaviours went: bickering and fights when they spent time together, affection and protectiveness when they were apart.  
He decided it was time to ask the question.

“How… How is she?”

Harry hesitated, and John swore he could hear the relieved smile on the other end of the line even though she hadn't proffered a word yet.

“She's good. Ellie is good, John. Bit bigger than in the last picture – should have sent you a new one really, but we had so much to do. Clara got that promotion, and we – refurnished the kitchen, made up her room a little better. You know”.

John closed his eyes, swallowed. Harry’s tone – excited, though possibly forcibly so, her chattering almost breathless – was so at odds with how John felt: distraught, but relieved; guilty, but grateful; angry with himself, but lost as to what to do about it.  
_It really had been the best solution._

“When are you… Are you going to come see us?” Harry said when John failed to speak. Her voice was hesitant. “She's your daughter and she… She would like to see you”.

John's head throbbed; he lifted a hand, and rubbed two fingers on that very painful spot just above his right eyebrow.

“I… I don't – I need to check when I have a couple of days to-“

“Whenever you want, John. Whenever you want. Just – just know I understand, but, whenever you want”.

John bit his lower lip, and blinked twice. He cleared his throat, though he couldn't make himself say anything else.

“Have you seen Sherlock yet?”, Harry offered him a way out – a treacherous one, though not as impossible to navigate as the previous topic had been. John breathed again.

“Yes. Yes, it's all – I’ve seen him just once. But it's all good.” He could picture Harry nodding in sympathy.

“Good, good. Will you be staying with him then? Heard he's still at Baker Street but you know, read it on the papers, and you never know fibs from truth with them, you know”.

“No, I mean yes, he’s still at Baker Street but – no, I don't plan on moving back in”, John said, trying for a steady and convincing tone. He couldn't deny that he had thought about it; Harry's idea wasn't completely absurd. He just hadn't been sure enough – of what he wanted to do, of how he himself was going to react once he was back in London. And of course, of what Sherlock was going to think about it. You don't just ring your friend up one day after staying away for two years and go, _well I'm moving back in, hope that's ok._ You just don't.

 _Not even your best friend?_ , a traitorous voice argued in his head; John decided to ignore it.  
He heard Harry mmmh her understanding on the other end of the line. John noticed he was clasping his hand around his phone so hard his knuckles were white – when was he going to stop being so weird? He flexed his ring and pinky fingers experimentally, and then sighed.

“I have to go now. Shift in an hour. I will call back”.

“Okay. We - I'll talk to you soon”. He could feel Harry’s attempts at being subtle, and he was secretly grateful for that. He smiled, a bit tight.

“Yeah. Soon”.

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's read my first chapter and commented! It really helped me. Thank you x


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock didn't think he had ever believed that kissing wasn't nice. Yes, he'd stayed away from relationships, and generally he hadn't been interested in that kind of human contact for many years; but all the kissing he had involved himself in had been nice.  
And the possibly ironic, certainly interesting detail was that - all the kissing he'd ever done was with Victor. Sherlock didn't know if Victor was aware of this, but, while he did not have deduction abilities, Sherlock wagered he must know.

It had started at University, quite a few years prior, when they first met - Sherlock a fresher, Victor two years older, in his third year. Sherlock still remembered the novelty of it, the fact that he'd felt terribly inexperienced and clumsy - and in a way he still felt so, even now.  
But Victor hadn't minded then, and if Sherlock was indeed still showing his awkwardness, he didn't seem to mind now, either.

Victor kissed him slowly, warmly, his mouth claiming Sherlock's whole, and pushing and pulling languorously - it was almost hypnotic, and Sherlock let himself be lulled by the gentle movements, let his head relax back against the couch cushion, Victor's body leaning over his, each of his arms planted securely on either side of Sherlock's chest on the soft, tattered leather of the couch cover.  
The kiss seemed to last an indefinite number of minutes - Sherlock certainly lost count. Then Victor gently separated their mouths with a final parting peck; he raised his hand from where it gripped the edge of the sofa, the right side of his body slotted more firmly in between Sherlock and the back of the couch, yet still reclining half over Sherlock, so he could look at his face. 

"You're absolutely breathtaking", Victor murmured. He smiled, and the fingers of his free hand went to stroke Sherlock's lips, softly - his dark skin standing out against Sherlock's pale, almost ivory complexion, and the red of his mouth. Sherlock's cheeks flushed with pleasure; as much as he hated to admit it, he was partial to praise - completely and utterly so.  
Victor leant down a bit to steal another kiss, open-mouthed, tongue stroking and exploring; and Sherlock permitted it. He allowed himself to close his eyes, and just feel; his mind was almost empty, the mess of all the thoughts that needed sorting untouched for the moment. 

They were interrupted by a muted thrill, and then Victor's tracksuit pocket vibrated.  
Sighing, Victor picked himself up a little more, enough to reach into his pocket, his strong biceps flexing as the short sleeves of his T-shirt rode up a little. He looked at the screen.

"Sorry. I need to take this". 

He rose to stand, smoothed the creases of his T-shirt as he brought his phone to his ear with the other hand. Sherlock pushed himself up with his hands on the couch until he was sitting up; he felt as if he was just waking from an unplanned bout of slumber. 

"Did they confirm? Great", Victor was saying, his practically accent-less voice a low rumble; he, too, sounded like he'd just woken up. Sherlock fixed his gaze on to an imaginary point on the carpet, eyes unfocused, and listened on. 

"Send the paperwork - we'll process the advance and give them a quote".

Victor walked away towards Sherlock's bedroom, and his voice dispersed. Sherlock looked up, his eyes trailing after Victor, and he bit his lip as his mind whirred into thought once more. 

 

**** 

 

John listened to the muted clack-clack noise his shoes produced on the marble floors of the MI6 building. His hands clenched and released as he walked, and he looked around perfunctorily - merely to have something to do while he navigated the maze of almost-blinding-white walls and halls shrouded in silence and populated by dusty, expensive furniture.  
As he entered the lift and pressed the button with the polished 'minus two' etched on top of it, he was reminded of a show he used to watch in his younger years, about an FBI agent relegated to an office in the basement because of his obsession for top-secret and practically unsolvable cases. _The similarities are certainly there_ , he thought, and almost chuckled to himself.

When he finally reached the office, the voice that asked him to come in had a certain tone of urgency he'd never heard before. Door closed behind himself, John stepped towards the center of the room. The same grey-ish, brown-ish Persian carpet under his shoes greeted him; the same dark rosewood table and cushioned chairs; the same painting hanging from the immaculate wall, almost censorious in its solemnity. 

Behind the desk, Mycroft clasped his eyes on him, and greeted him with a nod but without rising from his chair, as if they'd only seen each other the day before and not a whole two years prior.

"Good morning, John."

His voice had lost its urgency; John convinced himself he'd probably imagined it. When he looked up, Mycroft's eyes were just as piercing as they'd ever been; John knew he was being deduced.  
He didn't care.

"Mycroft. Long time no see", he greeted back.

"Indeed. I expect your travels were fruitful?"

John grimaced, the left corner of his mouth pulled up into a half wince, half snicker. Mycroft and his theatrics.

"You could say so", he offered. He'd never liked to make small talk with Mycroft before, and he was even less inclined now. "I suppose we've exhausted the small talk, so I hope you don't mind me getting straight to it - is there a reason you've summoned me here?"

Mycroft leant back in his chair, crossed one leg over the other mock-casually; his eyes still regarded John from head to toe, towering even from his seated position.

"Can I not just wish to have a simple conversation?"

John chuckled, looking away and nearly rolling his eyes. He brought his gaze back to Mycroft.

"With all due respect, Mycroft, when have we ever had a 'simple conversation'? I highly doubt we're going to start now. I know you don't care about me and believe me, I'm not offended."

Mycroft didn't move his gaze from John's, and, just as John was expecting, his face remained steely and he didn't react to John's teasing. The older Holmes reached with an elegant hand, just lightly, to wave at the chair closest to John. 

"Please take a seat?"

John cleared his throat, and then sat; looked at Mycroft expectantly. Mycroft glanced down at his desk, shifted a pen holder needlessly to the side. 

"You've met with Sherlock, I gather?"

"You know I have".

"And you've been to Baker Street?"

John sat back a little, harrumphed again. 

"I have. Where are you going with this, may I ask?"

A beat. Mycroft sat back as well, mirroring John's movements. 

"And have you met the person whom Sherlock currently shares the flat with?"

Something tense coiled tightly in the gut of John's stomach. He swallowed, nervously, and cleared his throat again when the tight feeling did not disappear. He frowned up at Mycroft, his eyebrows drawing together, his eyes wide even though he was battling to conceal his surprise.

"I beg your pardon?"

Mycroft sighed.

"Sherlock has begun keeping company with a gentleman he knew from his days at University. He's staying at Baker Street, but that is all I know on the matter". He lifted a hand, curled his fingers into a loose fist, and looked at this manicured fingernails, absent-mindedly in appearance. 

Another harrumph.

"This guy's staying at Baker Street?", John asked pointlessly. 

Mycroft just looked at him. 

"I haven't seen anyone there", John continued, when it was clear Mycroft wasn't going to answer his redundant comment. "Sherlock was on his own when I went." As soon as he said that, a sharp stab of realisation pulsed in the middle of his chest - _you didn't go to the flat. You don't know if Sherlock was actually alone._

John bristled.

"Why are you asking this? How do you know - who is this person?"

So many questions at once, and John suddenly realised this wasn't going the way he wanted; he was going to say something he didn't want to say, uncover all his cards all at once as per usual, and then he would be at the mercy of Mycroft's deductions and part of yet another plan of his before that meeting was even over - and God knew if he wasn't going to allow that. He'd left to get away from all that mess; he needed to be more focused or he would fall right into it all over again.

"I already told you who he is. And as far as why I'm asking - I think it's rather obvious". Mycroft looked at him, and now his expression was weirdly, confusingly placid. He looked expectant, and John felt another big chunk of his patience slip away from him. He shook his head sharply.

"It's not obvious, no." His mouth set into a rigid smile that had nothing to do with mirth, and he cleared his throat once more, impatient.

"Sherlock was very close with this man during their time at university", Mycroft sighed, speaking as if he was having to recount the plot of a movie he had rather not have watched, his voice undulating in a sing-song manner. "Something, however, happened, and they had to be separated. He left Sherlock, in fact". Mycroft's tone turned suddenly clipped. "Needless to say that proved to be a far from ideal situation for my brother, and I am sure you can fill the blanks as to what I mean exactly".

The words hung in the silence between them, heavy as lead. John blinked, frowned; he held Mycroft's eyes, challenging. _Why are you saying this to me? Why are you doing this?_ were the thoughts that whirred in his head, battling and sparring against even more unpleasant feelings: guilt - Are you doing this to remind me of how rubbish I am at protecting Sherlock? - and something else, a nagging sensation in between his ribs that he knew well, from before everything happened, even, _from the time with Irene, and Janine, and every other time I thought I would become irrelevant in his life._

"Right." John stood, took a deep breath; his hands clenched and unclenched into nervous fists. "And of course there is a reason you are telling me all of this". Suddenly, he just wanted to get out, put his frustrated energy into use.

Mycroft's eyebrows rose, and he half-smiled. 

"Not at all. I merely intended to collect a statement from you as to what you saw when you visited Baker Street". 

John licked his lips, and breathed out noisily, offered a dry half-chuckle. _Yeah, right._

"What - this guy. What's his name?" He asked, all the while hating himself for once again doing exactly what Mycroft wanted, putting himself exactly where Mycroft wanted to put him. But he couldn't not know; he needed to find out what was going on, and he needed to start from somewhere.

"Victor Trevor", Mycroft said. His voice had gone back to its default levelness.

With a final harrumph, John lifted his chin in a sort of non-verbal announcement that he was done with their conversation. He turned on his heels and strode to the door, and Mycroft watched him leave, an unwavering, knowing expression in his eyes.

 

**** 

 

The first instinct had been to text Sherlock. His hand had grabbed his phone, his thumb had already swiped the screen into active mode, and his brain had conjured up a whole series of messages that John was never going to actually send - 'Why didn't you tell me you're living with this guy?'; 'Why were you hiding this from me?'; 'Why is your brother meddling in this and involving me?'  
Next, however, as Mycroft's car took him back to his flat, he tried to work out a way of asking Sherlock without being so direct - but looking outside through the darkened car window, his eyes unseeing and his mind in turmoil, he couldn't think of any composition of words that wouldn't inevitably rearrange itself into a giant, painfully obvious 'I'm fishing for information' in front of Sherlock's eyes instead.

By the time he got home he was a ball of nerves. He could not stop thinking, could not smooth out the frown that had set itself in between his eyebrows; and the worst part of it all was that he wasn't just worried. Mycroft was always prying into Sherlock's life - he'd tried to turn John into his own personal secret agent within hours of having first seen him with Sherlock, for God's sake - so his concern did not necessarily mean immediate danger, although it was certainly a warning sign. _Especially if Victor had once been the cause of one of Sherlock's relapses_ , John thought, his jaw setting unconsciously. 

But what his mind kept going back to was the _why_. Why did Sherlock hide it from him? John thought about Sherlock leading him to Mrs Hudson's flat, and John allowing him without question - he kicked himself mentally at his naiveté. When did Sherlock ever want to leave his flat in favour of 221a? 

Who was this Victor Trevor? Why was he staying in Baker Street?

John grabbed his phone once again, pinched his lips, and opened his messages. He still didn't know what to say, but he needed to say something.  
As he scrolled down his texts, a name appeared - Lestrade, sending a message asking him to meet for a pint now that he was back. John checked the time on his watch - noon. Way too early for the pub - and Greg would still be at work. An idea formed in his mind, and John placed his phone back into his pocket and left the flat, running down the flight of stairs, itching to hail a cab and get to Scotland Yard as soon as possible.

**Author's Note:**

> This story will be continued. I just stumbled into quite a few one shots that wanted to be written... 
> 
> Stay tuned :)


End file.
